


open your mind (enjoy the ride)

by greyspilot



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Possibly OOC, Rated T for swearing, lots of feelings talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25629838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyspilot/pseuds/greyspilot
Summary: Arthur always had a plan.This train was scheduled to depart the station at eighteen-hundred hours, on the dot. That was the plan. It was one of those long-distance trains, taking him from Moscow to Paris in just under forty hours, the kind that had a dining carriage and each two-person cabin had its own bathroom and every stewardess wore the same pink pencil skirt.He’d had this whole trip mapped out, but there was something Arthur hadn’t accounted for, a single variable he hadn’t taken into consideration; as his watch ticked closer and closer to seventeen forty-five, the person he would be stuck in this bunk with for just under forty hours was nowhere to be seen.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35
Collections: Inception Big Bang 2020





	open your mind (enjoy the ride)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostnoise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostnoise/gifts), [immortalitylost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immortalitylost/gifts).



> title from Back In the Day by Christina Aguilera

Arthur always had a plan.

He was just a kid when he learned he couldn’t rely on parents or nannies, a teen when he learned he couldn’t rely on friends or teachers, an adult when he learned he couldn’t rely on soldiers or sergeants. He always had a plan, because if he had a plan, he could control the circumstances. If he could control the circumstances, he wouldn’t be disappointed. He wouldn’t be hurt.

This train was scheduled to depart the station at eighteen-hundred hours, on the dot. That was the plan. It was one of those long-distance trains, taking him from Moscow to Paris in just under forty hours, the kind that had a dining carriage and each two-person cabin had its own bathroom and every stewardess wore the same pink pencil skirt. He hadn’t been on a journey like this since the carpet damn near got him killed.

This carpet was nice, though. Slate grey and a little shaggy, just enough that Arthur could see the patterns he traced on the floor with the toe of his brown-leather loafers

That was another thing about Arthur; whenever something was going Not According to Plan, he focused his energies on something else. _Anything_ , else. Like drawing circles in a kinda-shaggy, grey carpet. (When he enlisted, he’d had to take a mandatory psych evaluation. The psych had called it _avoidance_. Arthur called it not having a panic attack.)

At that moment, things were going completely Not According to Plan. He’d had this whole trip mapped out, but there was something Arthur hadn’t accounted for, a single variable he hadn’t taken into consideration; as his watch ticked closer and closer to five forty-five, the person he would be stuck in this bunk with for just under forty hours was nowhere to be seen.

And maybe it wasn’t as big a deal as he was making it out to be in his mind, but if the train _waited_ for whatever disorganised, inconsiderate son of a-

Arthur heaved a sigh and checked his watch as if that’d somehow give them more time.

If he was _late_ , he would miss the job, and he _couldn’t_ miss this job. It was the first job he’d taken since the Saito Extraction job, and although he didn’t exactly need the money, he needed to _do_ something. Because he wasn’t doing anything, hadn’t been for close to a year. Call him old fashioned, but after that job, it wasn’t the same. The team was long gone and he couldn’t bring himself to trust someone again. Not like that.

Now he’d tried to be patient, to be polite. He didn’t pick a bunk or put away his duffle, wanted to make sure that his bunkmate would be comfortable too, but they _still_ weren’t here, even though there were only two minutes until departure and the train horn was blowing its final warning-

And then he heard _that voice_ outside his cabin window, calling out “‘scuse me, love, got places to be,” and then he caught a glimpse of that _stupid_ combover (the one that really shouldn’t look so _good_ ) and then Eames was bursting through the door to his cabin, just in time for the train to start rolling, looking all flushed and dishhevelled and breathless like he was running from the law. Which, knowing Eames, (and Arthur _did_ , as much as he hated to acknowledge it), was likely.

Something like uncertainty flashed lightning-quick across Eames’ features. Arthur wanted to pause that moment, to study that look and pick it apart, figure out what it all _meant_ , but he couldn’t because _that look_ , whatever it was, disappeared just as fast.

“Arthur,” Eames said, thick lips pulling into a lopsided grin, (one that Arthur would argue looked more like a grimace). “What a pleasant surprise.”

Except that it wasn’t - not from where Arthur was standing, anyway. Because Arthur was standing in front of the person who was able to throw even his best-laid plans off-course, the person who brought out all of his worst, most spontaneous desires. The only person who Arthur would say _to hell with the plan_ for, if given the chance. (Which he wasn’t, so, no point dwelling on that.)

No, from where Arthur was standing, this was possibly the most unpleasant surprise he’d ever received. And he was going to make sure Eames knew that too, as he pointedly ignored him in favour of wrestling his duffle into the overhead compartment.

“Oh come now, Arthur, don’t be a sod,” Eames said, clearly not appreciating the lack of attention his teasing had garnered.

Arthur tried to find it in him to care (really, he did) and when he came to the conclusion that he just _didn’t_ , he continued to pretend he hadn’t heard a thing Eames said. As if he hadn’t been doing it since that night back in L.A.

And he wasn’t being a _sod_ , whatever that meant, but sharing a six-foot-squared space with _Eames_ wasn’t exactly what he had in mind for a near two-day trip. He had planned on some food, some champagne, maybe some light reading. A little socialisation, if his bunkmate didn’t turn out to be some sort of asshole or sociopath.

Well, he’d ended up with both, hadn’t he?

“Fine,” Eames said, shoving his half-opened bag below his seat. “I suppose we’ll do it this way, then, if that’s what you want.”

And, truly, Arthur could’ve left it there. He could’ve easily accepted the victory and the silence and kept his mouth shut, but he never could leave well enough alone. (His therapist had called _that_ a superiority complex. Arthur didn’t disagree there.)

So he scoffed out a “what _I_ want?”, punctuated it with an eye-roll.

Eames cocked a brow, looking at Arthur almost incredulously. Like he almost didn’t recognise the man before him. And well, it _had_ been almost a year. Maybe Arthur was different now. (Somewhere deep down inside, hidden in shadows in the corners of his heart that he dare not approach, Eames hoped he hadn’t changed too much.)

“Yes, Arthur, what _you_ want,” Eames dropped into the seat by the door with a flourish, kicked a leg over his knee and rested his elbows on this thigh. Still full of sass, Arthur noticed. Once upon a time, that was something he liked about Eames. Not anymore. “I was trying to be friendly but you aren’t having it.”

“You’re the one that left,” Arthur snapped, not even bothering to spare him a sideways glance. And then as if to remind him (as if Eames could ever forget), Arthur added, “Back in L.A.”

As soon as he said it, Arthur felt a little sick, and he was sure it had nothing to do with the way the train suddenly rattled. This feeling was more like he’d just cut himself open and laid out his insides on a table for Eames to play with. He’d given away far too much, let Eames think he was affected by whatever happened. Because he wasn’t. He was over it. He had to be, because that was the plan.

With his arms crossed over his chest a bit like a petulant child, Arthur sank down into the empty seat. Trapped between Eames and the vast expanse of hills and _nothing else_ , Arthur huffed the smallest of sighs and let his head rest against the only small, square window in the cabin. (And if Arthur noticed that Eames had left the window seat for him, he convinced himself it was pure coincidence and had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the fact that Eames knew he got travel-sick easy.)

At Eames’ silence, because Eames’ was _never_ silent, Arthur couldn’t help but shy a glance in his direction. He had his lips pursed and brow furrowed, like he _wanted_ to say something but wasn’t quite sure what. That was Eames though, always had to have the last say. Not that Arthur was one to talk. Maybe, he thought, that’s why they never would’ve worked anyway. Even if they’d been given a chance. Even if Eames _had_ stayed.

Long lashes fluttered against high-cheekbones and then grey eyes were seeking out Arthur’s. And if Arthur had any self-control at all when it came to Eames, he would’ve blinked hard and turned away, continued gazing at the rolling hills as the train crossed a too-long bridge at what felt like a painfully slow speed.

But Arthur didn’t have that control, not when it came to Eames, and against his better judgement he shifted in his seat to face him.

“What?” he asked, far too aware of the way Eames’ gaze lingered just a second too long on his eyes, his nose, his lips.

He resisted the urge to ask _what_ again. The ball was in Eames’ court now, he would leave it there. Let the man take his damn turn, if he dared.

After far too much silence, and even more staring, Eames sucked in a breath, furrowed that deep brow a little more, and opened his mouth to speak but no words came out as the train lurched forward and came to a screeching halt.

Arthur threw his hands over his head as his duffle bag shot out from the overhead compartment, nearly hitting him on it’s way down. Eames simply placed his legs in front of his chair, trapping his bag like a cage. He shot him a close-lipped smile when Arthur followed suit and slid his luggage beneath his seat.

Eames tried speaking again, mouth opening all wide like whatever opinion he needed to voice was _important_ , but an announcement came over the speaker system at the very same time.

 _“_ Valued passengers,” a female voice said. “we regret to inform you that we are experiencing delays due to debris on the tracks. We appreciate your patience and understanding as we work through this.”

Well. This was _really_ not part of the plan. Though at this point, Arthur supposed he would just be throwing the plan out the window for today.

He let his head fall back against the small window with a light thud and stared out at the hills, no longer rolling past his window but standing still.

The sun was already beginning to set, the summer sun casting a rich pink glow over the European Countryside. Arthur would take the time to appreciate its beauty, if he had it. Although he kind of did, now that he was no longer on his way to a job. Was no longer on his way to _anything_. Just stuck in a room, on a stationary train, with the last person he wanted to be stuck with.

The universe really was mocking him.

“Well,” Eames said, tone far too cheery given the circumstances. “Now you can’t ignore me.”

And so was Eames, apparently.

“Twenty bucks says I can,” Arthur mumbled, breath fogging up the window as he mustered up as much energy as possible to be smart, when he was really just _tired_.

“ _Twenty bucks_ says you didn’t,” Eames said with a self-satisfied smile.

Eames held out an open palm, as though Arthur were about to hand over some cash. As though Arthur would give him _anything_.

He blinked at the hand, then up at the man before him. And he was _done_. He was tired of feeling betrayed by Eames, tired of feeling like he was owed more. Maybe he was, but even so, he wasn’t about to get it. No use crying over spilled milk, as his nanny used to say.

And maybe Eames saw the defeated look in Arthur’s brown eyes. Maybe he saw the way Arthur’s shoulders slumped, or noticed the small sigh he huffed, but whatever it was made Eames lower his hand back into his lap, wiped that smug smirk off of his face and then, quietly, almost carefully, Eames confessed, “I didn’t think you wanted me to stay.”

And that-

That caught Arthur off guard. Because he thought the conversation was over, thought that was the end and he’d never get the closure he wanted. But here Eames was, talking about the thing they’d avoided talking about since before it even happened.

And he didn’t even know what to say.

“You could’ve _asked_ ,” he said, low, like it was a secret. Though, he’d say this whole conversation was a secret.

”Would you have said yes?”

It was a dangerous question to ask. Eames was taking a shot in a dark room and hoping for the best, and maybe he was reading too much into it, maybe he was picking Eames apart in hopes of finding the pieces he wanted, but he sounded a little desperate, a little pleading. Then again, maybe Arthur was the desperate one.

He almost wanted to say yes, to lay all his cards out on the table but he didn’t trust Eames with his hand just yet. How could he, when Eames was the one who folded before the game had even begun?

Still, maybe he should’ve said _something_. But maybe Eames should’ve known better than to ask.

He had that steadfast look in his eye, the one he got when something wasn’t going his way and he didn’t want to drop it, the one that told Arthur this wasn’t the last of the conversation.

But it would have to be for now, because there was a stewardess in a pink pencil skirt with a trolley full of champagne knocking on the door of their cabin and saying, “We apologise for the delay. Our team is working on getting this issue resolved as soon as possible. In the meantime, may I interest you in a complimentary drink?”

“No, thank you,” Arthur said at the same time as Eames’ _yes, please_.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Arthur,” Eames said, all cocksure and decisive, “have a drink with me. He’ll take the champagne, please, love.”

Arthur shot Eames a halfhearted glare, more out of principle than actual opposition, as the woman in the pink skirt poured one glass and then, with only a little hesitation, a second. She handed Eames a glass and then hesitated. She glanced between them and her gaze lingering a little longer on Arthur, offering him an out as she offered him the glass.

(In hindsight, Arthur should’ve taken the out.)

Arthur glowered at Eames, then took the flute being handed to him.

The stewardess turned to the adjacent cabin and Eames took a sip of his champagne, eyes trained closely on her. _We apologise for the delay…_

“You don’t say no to free shit,” Eames told him.

“I say no to shit I don’t _want_ ,”

Eames wanted to roll his eyes.

“Fine. You don’t say no to free _alcohol_ . If _you_ don’t drink it, _I_ will.”

Arthur did roll his eyes.

“Suppose a thief _would_ say that,” he muttered, just loud enough for Eames to hear. And maybe that was a bit of a low blow, Arthur’s hands weren’t exactly clean, and Eames’ swift hands had helped Arthur get that payload that let him live such a cushy life for the better part of a year, but he wasn’t about to apologise to Eames. Instead, he downed his champagne in one go.

“‘Fraid not,” Eames said with a click of his tongue, watching as Arthur slammed the glass down on the small flip-out table. “A thief would just...”

His words trailed off as he reached below his seat, dug around in his half-opened duffle for a minute and pulled out a full bottle of champagne, grinning like a proud father.

“When did you-”

“Magician never reveals his secrets.”

“You’re not a magician, you’re a thief.” (Arthur didn’t know what it was, but something about Eames had always brought out that bite that he thought he’d lost when he enlisted. It wasn’t something he liked about himself, but it wasn’t something he could seem to stop either.)

“Different side of the same coin, love.”

Eames managed to pop the champagne with relatively no trouble and reached over Arthur to pick up his empty glass.

Arthur’s hand caught Eames’ forearm to stop him before he even realised what he was doing. He hadn’t touched Eames in almost a year.

Arthur snatched his hand back, bit the inside of his cheek to stop the blush he felt creeping up his face and said, “No, I'm okay. Thanks.”

Eames stared at Arthur, lips parted and cheeks burning as though that one small touch was enough to awaken whatever feelings he thought he’d put to rest all those months ago. He quickly regained his composure, and Arthur pretended he hadn’t seen that starved look in his eye.

“Arthur, who knows how long we’re going to be on this train, stuck in this room together,” he said, licking his lips and looking anywhere but at the man he was speaking to. Like it was avoidable when they were sat mere inches away from each other. “Do you want to do that sober?”

“One bottle of champagne isn’t going to get us drunk, Eames.”

Eames reached over Arthur once more to pick up his empty flute. (Arthur let him, didn’t dare try and touch a second time.)

“It won’t,” Eames said, pouring a glass, “but there are two more in that duffle.”

And then he looked at Arthur again, although it felt like the first time he’d _truly_ looked. He didn’t waiver, didn’t glance away in some weak attempt to pretend he hadn’t been stealing glances since he got on the damn train. So with steady eyes and steadier hands, he held out the glass.

.

Maybe it was the bubbles from two bottles of champagne going to his head, or maybe it was the magenta glow the almost-night sky cast on Eames’ face, but Arthur couldn’t help thinking back to that night in L.A.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, wasn’t something he’d intended, but the flight had been _long_ and the Saito job even longer and he was _tired_. And, well, Eames already had a hotel room booked for the night.

“Why’d you think I’d say no?” He asked suddenly, words low and slurred, movements sluggish as he leaned back to rest on the window (blocking the light that was hitting Eames in all the right ways and making Arthur go stupid).

“Please,” Eames mumbled, pouring himself another glass and paying Arthur no mind, “you’re a _flirt_ , Arthur.”

Arthur sputtered at that, nearly choked on his drink because- “You’re _not_?”

“Oh I am, but here’s the difference between us; I flirt with _you_ ,” and then his gaze wavered, he looked away and said, mostly to his champagne flute, “I know it didn’t mean anything to you.”

Something heavy wormed its way into the pit of Arthur’s stomach and settled there at the insecure edge to his words. How could he think that when Arthur’s flirting was the reason they were in this mess?

“Eames, of _course_ it- _I_ was the one who came onto _you_ , remember?”

And Eames chuckled a little at that and brought the rest of his champagne to his lips in hopes of drowning out the memories of Arthur’s hand on his knee, sliding up the seam of his slacks, his whiskey-soaked breath warm on his cheek.

“I remember.”

“So why didn’t you stay?” Arthur asked again, unwilling to let the subject drop.

“I just told you, Arthur.”

“I don’t believe that and I _know_ you don’t either.”

Eames waved him off, grabbed the last bottle and took a swig. “I don’t want to keep talking about this.”

“Well I do and I think I deserve an explanation.”

Eames set the champagne down on the flimsy table with a harsh slam.

“Tell me, Arthur,” he snapped, “where do I fit into that perfect little plan of yours?”

There was a beat of silence and Arthur looked away, licked his lips, fiddled with the champagne flute in his hand. Anything to distract from the voice echoing in the back of his mind telling him that Eames _didn’t_ fit. Anything to distract from the gnawing _want_ he felt anyway.

Eames always did have this effect on him. Made him want to throw caution to the wind.

“We’re talking about one night, Eames,” is what he said, quietly as though he didn’t quite want Eames to hear. And maybe he didn’t, because maybe he didn’t quite mean it. “Not the rest of my life.”

Eames let out a small sigh, took another drink.

“And maybe that’s why I don’t want to talk about it.”

Arthur frowned. “What does _that_ mean?”

As if he didn’t know. As if he couldn’t read between the lines. As if he wanted Eames to admit it anyway.

“Nothing at all.”

Eames downed the rest of his drink.

And Arthur almost let it go. The champagne was catching up, face too warm, eyelids heavy and his words were starting to slur. He should really cut himself off, but he’d been waiting to have this conversation for almost a year.

He’d tried contacting Eames, after. Left some voicemails, sent some emails, got nothing in return but radio silence. Until now. The train had been stopped for the better part of two hours now, there was no way he was making it to this job. So if he was going to get anything out of this trip, he was going to get answers.

“It obviously means _something_ ,” Arthur shot back, trying to rile Eames. And it was working, if his tense shoulders and furrowed brow were anything to go by,

“Look,” Eames said, though he wasn’t looking. “It meant _nothing_. Just drop it.”

Arthur knew what Eames meant, he did, and maybe he _should’ve_ dropped it, but he always was ambitious. How could he let go when the one thing he wanted was nearly in reach?

“So L.A. meant nothing?” He said, poking the bear and hoping for claws. “Guess I should've known, you don’t care about anything unless it has a price tag.”

“That’s not fair, Arthur. It meant more to me than you know.”

Arthur shook his head (and instantly regretted it when it felt as though his brain was rattling around up there.)

“Why should I believe that?”

“Please,” Eames huffed, “we manufacture people’s subconscious for a living but the idea that I could have _real_ feelings for you is unbelievable? When are you going to open up that small mind of yours?”

Arthur blanched, his face growing hotter as rage simmered in his veins.

“Small mind? _I’m_ small-minded? What about _you_?”

“Oh, what about me?” Eames snapped, standing to tower over Arthur.

Arthur followed suit, taking advantage of the extra inch he had on Eames and standing over him. “You’re like a- a tornado! You _never_ think about what you’re doing to other people, or their fucking _plans_ ! You just blow through and you destroy _everything_ in your path to get what you want and you _never_ think of the damage you’re causing!”

“ _Damage_ ? My god, I _knew_ this could never be anything and _that’s_ why I left! Because I knew I would _never_ live up to your unattainable standards! Enlighten me, Arthur, since you’re so damn considerate, how did my feelings for you _damage_ you? Tell me exactly how I ruined all of your _perfect plans_?”

Arthur’s chest was heaving, short of breath partially from shouting, partially from all the champagne. If he was thinking straight, he’d tell Eames _exactly_ how he ruined all of Arthur’s plans. He’d tell him that he made Arthur forget all about every plan he’d ever made. Made him want to be _more_ , more spontaneous, more reckless. Eames made Arthur want to take chances. (And he would’ve taken those chances, if given the opportunity. For Eames, he would.)

But Arthur wasn’t thinking straight. Not at all.

All Arthur was thinking was how good Eames looked, face flushed red from champagne and maybe a little anger, plump lips parted. All Arthur was thinking was how good they felt on his own that night back in L.A.

And it was a mistake, a very bad idea, but Arthur leaned in, their lips dangerously close, breath mingling as Eames looked up, took in Arthur’s pink cheeks, big brown eyes and long lashes.

Then Arthur was doing it. He was throwing caution to the wind. He was saying goodbye to the plan, and he was kissing Eames.

The kiss took Eames off guard and he stumbled backwards a little, knees hitting the bottom bunk of the tiny cabin (head nearly hitting the top) but as he fell he reached out for Arthur’s arms, dragging him down too.

And Arthur wanted to keep kissing him, hands fisted in the lapels of Eames’ blazer, Eames’ hands in his hair, but the bed was soft and Eames’ chest was looking pretty damn comfortable and it was getting harder to keep his eyes open now that the thrill of his emotions had calmed down. So he stopped kissing Eames, settled for resting his head where Eames’ shoulder met his chest, and he let his eyes fall shut.

“I would’ve said yes, you know,” Arthur said, words slurring just a little. He tilted his head up to look at Eames one last time, warm breath ghosting over Eames’ too-good-to-be-real cheekbones. “Every day, for the rest of my life. If you’d asked.”

It was a dangerous admission, one that could get him hurt, but it was all worth the risk when Eames leaned forward and pressed their lips together one last time.

“And I would’ve stayed.”

And then, with a soft sigh and a softer smile, Arthur was falling asleep.

.

Arthur woke up as the sun was rising, the morning light hitting his face, soft gusts of air from Eames’ snores ruffling his hair. Arthur stilled, recalling the events of the previous night, or as much of it as he could, and looked up at Eames, stealing this moment to look at him just a little longer.

And then the train horn blared and Eames was jolted awake.

“Morning, sunshine,” Eames greeted, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand.

Arthur cleared his throat, looked away as though he wasn’t just memorising the curve of Eames’ lips or the angle of his jaw.

“Morning,” he said, rolling away from Eames and off the bed, choosing instead to take his seat back by the window.

“Look, Arthur,” Eames started, sitting up and across from him, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. Arthur shouldn’t have stared, but he couldn’t find it in him to look away. “About last night-”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted, flushing red. “We don’t need to talk about it, really. We were drunk.”

Eames looked down at his hands in his lap and said, “I meant every word.”

Arthur may not have remembered everything, but he remembered enough. Remembered twisting Eames’ words to get the reaction he wanted, remembered the confession it’d wrung out of him.

He remembered kissing Eames, remembered Eames kissing _him_.

His heart thudded, palms started to sweat as Eames stood from the bed and took a tentative step forward. When he didn’t flinch away, he took another.

“So,” Arthur asked as Eames finally took the seat beside him. “What now?”

Because this was _definitely_ not part of the plan.

And then, slowly, the train started rolling forward and cautiously, Eames took Arthur’s hand.

Arthur let him.

“We enjoy the ride.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to @inceptionbigbang and @inceptiversary for organising all of these events, @immortalitylostandfound for signing up with me, @rainbyotes who painted this cute picture to accompany my fic and thank you to Jones for being my beta and being super patient and helpful with my procrastinating self.


End file.
